


Twenty Shadows

by angevin2



Category: 14th Century CE RPF, Richard II - Shakespeare
Genre: All the Death Everywhere, Death from Plague, Death in Childbirth, Excessive Alcohol Consumption, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Nasty Medieval Diseases, Pre-Canon, Survivor Guilt, Unrelenting Misery, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-23 21:18:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angevin2/pseuds/angevin2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henry and Richard have both lost their wives. It only drives them further apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DoreyG](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/gifts).



> Many thanks to K., T., and R. for beta-reading, handholding, and general support.

**June 1394**

It is a fine June, the roses in the abbey gardens are in full bloom, and the Queen of England is dead. 

It seems wrong, even to Henry Bolingbroke who knows perfectly well that he should have a better sense of these things, that Richard has been unable to command nature itself to take part in his mourning. He could have guessed, even without the rumors that have already reached most parts of the realm, that if Richard could have done so, he'd have torn the stars from their spheres to burn the world to cinders. 

They say that when Queen Anne died -- struck down by the pestilence, surely not by her own fault, for she was a virtuous woman; it was no doubt her husband that the hand of the Lord sought to chastise -- that Richard had been driven mad, that he had screamed like a devil or a madwoman until his voice gave out, torn his hair and clawed at his face and had to be restrained from throwing himself across his wife's body as a prey for the contagion.

Henry would be the first to admit, though, that if Richard's behavior has been immoderate, his grief surely is not, for Anne was the best woman in the realm, except of course for his Mary. He cannot allow himself to think what he would do, in Richard's situation; Mary is due to give birth very soon, and women die in childbed all the time. Not that Mary has ever had any difficulty before, except for that first time years and years ago that she doesn't talk about and Henry very carefully doesn't think about. Still. One doesn't wish to tempt fate by acknowledging that certain things could theoretically happen. 

Mary has grown melancholy herself since hearing the news of the Queen's death. She has never really cared for life at court for its own sake, but she has always admired Queen Anne, and not just because it's her duty as a subject or even because she likes everyone. The harshest word she has ever said against anyone was about her father-in-law, and although John of Gaunt holds the entire realm in terror, all she actually said was, "He can be difficult to get along with." That hardly even counts. Henry has heard Katherine Swynford say the same thing, for God's sake, and she's been his father's mistress since...well, Henry doesn't really want to think about how long that's been, way back before the Rising of '81, even.

At any rate, Mary has clearly thought of Anne as her friend and not just her queen -- since the Appellants, really, since he (and his uncle Thomas and Mary's uncle Arundel and the earl of Warwick and Thomas Mowbray, but never mind that) had finally come to blows with Richard. It was ironic. Mary had never been that interested in politics before, and hasn't been all that interested in them since, but she'd been quite concerned for the king and queen's welfare, and she'd insisted that Henry was too, really, deep down. She'd even been right, more or less. She usually is. She'd even come to court more often since then and had attended on Queen Anne sometimes, and had always been warmly received, although of course that was also just how Anne was, and also how Mary is, both loving and lovable.

"Perhaps we should name the baby after Richard, if it's a boy," she says one day. "Or would that be a bad idea? Maybe it would be a bad idea, to do that right now. What do you think?"

"I think..." Henry swallows hard. "I don't think he'd notice, if we did."

"No." Mary lowers her eyes, and Henry takes her hand and then covers it with his other hand, patting it absently, and after a moment, she continues, "You're worried about this baby, aren't you." It isn't a question.

"I always worry when you have a baby," he says. 

"But it's different this time," she says. "Because of Queen Anne, and Lady Constance." Henry's stepmother had died in March, and Henry was ashamed to admit he didn't really miss her that much. Of course, his father didn't either, and _he_ probably wasn't ashamed. 

"That's just superstition," he says. "When have I ever been superstitious?"

"I'll be all right," Mary says. "You weren't here when Humphrey and Blanche were born; it was the easiest thing in the world. I'm sure I'll be able to travel by August, even."

Henry smiles at her, even though he doesn't really feel it. "Maybe I should go to Jerusalem again," he says, and then he sighs and adds, "I don't think I'd visit King Wenceslaus this time, though." 

"No," Mary says again, leaning on his shoulder. 

Henry had paid a visit to the Emperor-elect on the way to Jerusalem. He wasn't sure why he'd been surprised that Wenceslaus had been so unlike his sweet and demure younger sister, since obviously an emperor (sort of) would come on a great deal stronger, but nevertheless it had been quite startling when he'd clapped Henry on the back and exclaimed, "I like you Englishmen. Your king gave me twenty thousand florins for my sister, and he's not calling in his debts."

Later he'd inquired after Anne's welfare over drinks. Henry felt a bit light-headed and flushed from trying to keep up with him, and he'd said that she was happy, better than happy, even. "I don't think she's left Richard's side since she came to England," he'd said. "They've been married ten years, but you'd think they were newlyweds, to look at them." This was possibly the wrong thing to say to someone about his sister -- if someone had said the same to Henry about his own sister and John Holland he wouldn't have appreciated the information at all -- but Wenceslaus just laughed and held out his tankard for a servant to refill. Henry had noticed that he wrinkled his nose when he smiled the same way Anne did and then wondered why he knew that.

"She's a good queen and a good woman," he'd finished, "and beloved by her subjects as much as her husband."

When he'd returned to England he'd told Anne that her brother sent his love, and she'd smiled and kissed him on the cheek and he'd felt the tips of his ears burn.

"Besides," Mary adds, as if she knows what he's thinking about, "you'd miss the Queen's funeral."

All of the peers and their wives had been ordered to come to London at the beginning of August, to participate in the obsequies. Henry had cringed as he'd read Richard's summons to _accompany the corpse of our dear consort from our manor of Sheen to Westminster_. He knew Richard well enough to know that those words may as well have been inscribed in blood.

It wasn't fair that the world wasn't going to have Anne in it anymore, not just because of the kind of person she was but also because of the kind of queen she was. The whole thing makes Henry doubt the justice of God. Which, in turn, makes him feel guilty and afraid, but then, what could England have possibly done so wrong that God should see fit to take away its queen and send its king mad? 

Henry remembers what Richard had been like after Robert de Vere had been driven into exile -- indeed, Henry himself had defeated him in battle, and de Vere had fled the field without striking a blow. When he had seen Richard in the Tower a few days later, the king had almost been afraid to let his wife out of his sight, and Henry had felt strangely ashamed of himself, despite what a bad influence de Vere had been. Richard had insisted on meeting with him privately; he had felt a strange thrill in the knowledge that Richard saw him as his best hope -- but every word, every touch had been poisoned, sweet at first, but they burned on the way down. 

What will Richard be like without Anne?

Henry doesn't really want to think about this anymore. He wraps an arm around Mary and rests his cheek against her hair, and she squeezes his hand and says "I'll be all right. I promise."

"I know," he says.

***

**July 1394**

Henry has told himself, many times, that he doesn't resent little Philippa. 

It wasn't her fault, after all, he reminds himself. Sometimes this just happens -- sometimes perfectly healthy women bleed to death after having given birth five times with no problem. Five times. All of their children are healthy and strong. 

Philippa is fine, herself, or so the nurses have told him. He just can't look at her. He's afraid he'll hate her.

That's what Harry had said, after he met his little sister, and Henry had told him as gently as he could that Philippa was only a baby, and that nobody knows why God lets things happen.

"Well, I hate _him_ , too," Harry had said. Henry had barely been able to find it in his heart to punish him, for saying that, not just because Harry isn't old enough to _really_ be accountable for it even though it's not a habit he should get into, but also for reasons he can't really articulate even in his own head, because he can't face the thought that maybe _he_ kind of hates God now, himself. It is a terrible sin, he knows, to think that, and yet -- he can't think how God could _possibly_ need Mary more than her children do. More than _he_ does.

Of course, they need their father, too.

Henry's own mother had died when he was only a baby, carried off by the pestilence like Queen Anne. Henry doesn't remember her at all, except from Geoffrey Chaucer's poem about her, which was very beautiful but didn't give him any idea at all about what she was really like. It had been far more disturbing to read about the poem's version of his father, whom Chaucer had portrayed as a grieving knight in black armor who told the narrator about how he'd pined away for the love of "fair Lady White" -- which wasn't all that clever, Henry thought, it was just _Blanche_ in English -- until she finally had mercy and granted him her love. Henry had always wondered if Chaucer had made his parents' courtship so romantic because it was a poem and poems were supposed to be romantic and not mention things like inheritances and alliances, or if despite the inheritance stuff his father actually _was_ that different before his mother died. Not that he was ever going to ask. He has always thought it was a small mercy that if his mother had to die, it wasn't from giving birth. That way his father only felt it necessary to resent him for his own inadequacies.

He wonders if anyone will ever write a poem for Mary. She had never really gotten to know any of the court poets, even John Gower who would probably write one, if Henry asked, because he really admires Henry and dedicated the second edition of the _Confessio Amantis_ to him. Henry supposes that doesn't really matter, for things like this, except it would matter to _him._

Henry has never been very poetic, but he's thought about writing a song for her -- a whole requiem mass, even, he's written a _Sanctus_ already. But he can't do it. He picked up his citole once and then he'd seen her little mandora hanging on the wall and all he could think of was how it was going to be silent forever, like Mary lying in her tomb in St. Mary's chapel, and he'd taken his dagger and slashed the strings. One of them had cut across his hand as it snapped. The cut is mostly healed, but it's still visible, the skin pink and tight where it knits together.

She deserves a better memorial than he can give her. Henry thinks of how Queen Anne has lain unburied for almost two months so that Richard can give her the most lavish funeral ever. Officially this is because she's the daughter of an emperor. Henry suspects that, as obsessed with protocol as Richard can be, it hasn't crossed his mind.

Mary hadn't really wanted an elaborate funeral. She always updated her will before giving birth, and she had been more interested in making provisions for people to pray for her soul. Henry is planning to have a chapel endowed, although he doesn't think someone as good and kind and pious as Mary really needs it. This should be consoling, he knows, and it isn't really _fair_ to mourn someone who's in heaven, but he doesn't know what he's supposed to _do_ without her.

Sometimes he wishes he could grieve like Richard has been -- just cast everything aside and abandon himself to it and not worry if the children think he's gone mad. He wonders if things would be different for Richard, if he and Anne had had children. Somehow, he doubts it.

Their children are the one true memorial Mary has, though. Henry wishes that comforted him more.

***

**August 1394**

Queen Anne has not been in her tomb for long when the preparations begin for King Richard's expedition to Ireland. 

There has been talk about such a campaign for years -- well before Anne died, and even before Richard decided to deal with Ireland by putting Robert de Vere in charge of it, a plan which, to absolutely nobody's surprise, probably not even Richard's given his unwillingness to actually send his lover _to_ Ireland, had been a dismal failure. Henry suspects that Richard's interest in it now has little to do with policy; if Anne were still alive, he probably wouldn't see it as a personal affront that Art MacMurrough was calling himself king of Leinster, or at least (given Richard's talent for seeing personal affronts everywhere) not one that required his presence to deal with. 

But Richard had announced this expedition within a fortnight of his wife's death. It's enough, almost, to make one pity the Irish. The earl of Arundel, at least, might find some sympathy for them. He'd not only arrived late to the Queen's funeral; he had had the gall -- or possibly just the stupidity -- to ask permission to leave early.

Henry had not been _precisely_ accustomed to thinking of Richard as terrifying, but that was before Richard's eyes had caught fire and his face went white and he wrested a baton from a nearby attendant, and in an instant Arundel was crumpled on the floor of Westminster Abbey, hand poised protectively over his shattered nose and blood leaking from between his fingers, creating an unnervingly large puddle on the floor. The look in Arundel's eyes was even more unsettling -- Henry would wager (if anyone asked) that nobody had ever seen him that frightened before, certainly not of Richard, whom he held in the deepest contempt. It was only when Richard had lifted the baton a second time that anyone had managed to react. Henry suspects that Arundel owes his life to Edward of Rutland's good reflexes, for he'd caught Richard's wrist and wrapped his other arm around Richard's waist -- surely the only man who could do such a thing and get away with it -- and whispered something in his ear, and all movement in the place and probably even the world had stopped. And then Richard's face had gone blank and empty. 

"Let me go, Edward," he'd said, and when Edward obeyed Richard let the baton fall to the floor. The clatter that tore through the Abbey apparently worked as permission for people to move and breathe and react again. Richard had turned on his heel and said, to nobody in particular, "Get that filth off the floor."

The service had been delayed for three hours while they cleaned the blood from the stones. Arundel spent the next week in the Tower. 

Henry can't find much sympathy for Arundel. He has always been reckless enough to not only make it a point to make Richard aware of exactly how much he despised him, but to extend that disdain to his wife. He was the rare person who wasn't completely disarmed by her. It was never quite clear if this was because he saw her as an extension of Richard, or because he thought she just enabled her husband's waste and folly. When the Lords Appellant had effectively taken control of the country, and were purging the realm of most of Richard's closest friends, Anne had come to Arundel and Thomas of Woodstock to plead for the life of Sir Simon Burley. After all, the man had been like a second father to Richard, and had negotiated his marriage so of course she was quite fond of him herself, and really nobody else including half of the Appellants felt he actually _deserved_ to be executed. But Arundel had let her go on for three hours, not even inviting her to stand up or sit down, before dismissing her pleas with "Lady, you'd do better to pray for yourself and your husband." Later on he'd complained to the rest of them that he'd been convinced she was never going to leave. Even Thomas, who had no problem with executing Burley, had felt he'd crossed a line (although Henry had wondered why he hadn't said something _then_ ).

It was, in retrospect, a wonder that Richard hadn't taken a blunt object to Arundel's face well before now. Perhaps Anne had never told him what Arundel had said to her. Henry thinks, not for the first time, that if anyone had insulted his Mary like that, they'd have regretted it soon after. Not that he'd have given anyone any reason to treat her that way, of course. 

But then, it wasn't _really_ Arundel that was the target of Richard's rage, no matter how much he deserved it. It wasn't the Irish, either, but you couldn't exactly go up to Death and beat _him_ with a baton. Which is why Henry has stayed in London long enough after the funeral to volunteer for the Irish expedition. 

Henry meets with Richard in an unbecomingly small chamber in Westminster Palace, because he refuses to enter any rooms where he's been with Anne. Which may further explain his desire to leave the country. Everything is draped in black, even the windows, which combined with the cramped quarters makes Henry feel rather claustrophobic.

"If it had been anyone else," Richard says, taking Henry's hands, "I wouldn't have let them in." 

"Of course, your Highness," Henry says. It's a feeling he can understand -- he doesn't have anything consoling to say, and he doubts Richard will offer any comfort to him, but at least he doesn't have to bear up, particularly, since of course Richard will _also_ understand. For once. "I am sorry," he adds. "I know it's no use to say so -- "

Richard squeezes his hands for a moment. He looks pale and peaked -- probably he hasn't eaten or slept. The shadows under his eyes reflect his purple mourning. It makes his grey eyes look quite intensely blue. Henry wonders for a moment why he notices this. He looks closely at Richard's face for a moment, remembering how he'd heard that Richard had torn up his face with his nails after Anne had died. It doesn't look like it, although it has been two months since Anne died and so it would probably have healed up by now anyway -- although it was unbelievable to think that even Richard would care about his looks in the face of his grief, his concern for his own beauty was dyed in grain, so maybe he'd had an instinctive knowledge not to scratch too hard.

"She was the best of women," he says, releasing Henry's hands. "The best of all people, really. I don't know -- how I shall -- " His eyes squeeze shut for a moment, and he buries his face in his hands for a moment as he turns away. He breathes deeply, and then heads for a nearby table, pouring himself a cup of wine from a silver flagon. He nearly drains it before setting it down to refill it.

"I would have done the same, your Highness," Henry says. "To Arundel, I mean."

Richard looks up at him, and his face has that same empty look Henry remembers from Anne's funeral. His lips are stained red, with a faint black line across the lower lip, from the wine. 

"No, you wouldn't," he says, and before Henry can reply -- not that there is a reply to that, at least not one that wouldn't eventually end up in some sort of treason charge -- Richard continues, "I am sorry about Mary, though." His lips turn upward just a tiny bit, the barest hint of a smile that doesn't even approach his eyes. "I envy her, really. I imagine she's with Anne."

Henry feels like he's swallowed broken glass. If he moves even a tiny bit it's going to bleed. Why has he even come here? This is a terrible idea. He should be back in Leicester with his children and his general misery. Going to Ireland with Richard seems like a worse and worse idea.

"I have no doubt they're both in heaven, my lord," he says, finally. 

"Do you want some wine?" Richard says. "It doesn't help, of course."

Henry can't think of anything he wants less, but he takes the cup anyway, reflecting that he doesn't really _have_ to drink any of it. It's rude not to drink things that the king gives you, but it's not like Richard would notice whether he does or not. He's filling his own cup yet again, emptying the flagon. When he finishes, he sinks down onto the settle, motioning to Henry to join him. Henry isn't exactly eager to sit next to him, but the only other thing to sit on is the bed, and you can't just sit on the king's bed unless he tells you to. And even if he did, this situation is already awkward enough.

"Does it help if you have children?" Richard says, after a long silence. 

Henry thinks about telling him that yes, it does, it means that there's some trace of Mary left behind, but -- he loves his children, but it doesn't work that way. Sometimes, like when Harry glares at him with Mary's face and insists that unlike his devout mother he hates God, it makes everything worse.

"Not really," he says.

"Anne and I lost a child once," Richard says. "Well -- more than once. Only one of them ever quickened, though." 

"I'm sorry," Henry says. "I didn't know."

"Of course you didn't," Richard says. "You were off crusading, or whatever it is you do, and anyway we didn't want it known until -- well, ever, as it turned out." His lips twist into a horrible expression that Henry thinks is possibly meant to be an ironic smile, but is almost entirely unlike a smile. "I thought it was the worst thing that had ever happened to me, and it wasn't just the baby, although God knows, that was bad enough, it was -- " He stares down into his cup. "Everything else I've ever lost -- " He breaks off, looking up at Henry, and Henry knows that the ghost of Robert de Vere is standing between them. "I still had _her._ And when we lost the baby -- God, Henry, she was so devastated. She thought it was her fault. I couldn't bear it -- she was just so _broken,_ and I couldn't do anything to help her." He swallows hard, and drains his cup again. "I thought I knew about loss, then. But I also thought, once, that God loved me, because he gave her to me."

"God chastens those he loves," Henry says, automatically. It's nothing more than a pious reflex, an incredibly stupid reflex, because all he can think of is Harry's tear-streaked little face, and his words: _I hate him, too._

Richard straightens up and for a moment Henry is certain Richard is going to hit him. He's far less certain he wouldn't deserve it. At least there isn't anyone with a baton nearby, and the closest available similar object is the fireplace poker, which is far enough away that it would transform this from an act of blind rage to a calculated facial rearrangement that Henry doesn't think Richard is willing to commit to. An accurate judgment, for Richard's anger dies out almost as quickly as it came, and he sinks back against the cushions again. 

"Do you _actually_ find that comforting," Richard says, "or are you just patronizing me?"

Henry looks down into his own cup. He hasn't touched it. His reflection is tiny and wavy, the eyes hollow as a skull's. He has never felt that God loves him, especially. 

"I suppose I try to believe it," Henry says. 

Richard examines his face for a long moment. "Did you watch her die?" he says.

For an instant, Henry considers telling the truth. It seemed as though he had never seen so much blood in his life. Thinking back on it now, he knows it must be a trick of his imagination, for he has fought many battles -- indeed, he has probably _spilled_ more blood than that, but it's different, somehow. 

They had sent for the physicians -- Henry knew enough about childbirth by then to know that that was a grim sign -- but there had been nothing that could be done. When he'd arrived at Mary's bedside he'd been afraid he was too late, but when he fell to his knees beside her she'd managed to open her eyes a crack and smile at him. Henry had scarcely noticed the squirming pile of bloodstained linen she was holding and which part of his mind registered was the baby. The last one she was ever going to have. He'd felt a stab of anger at it that he hoped didn't show, and anyway it was mostly at himself. It wouldn't be there if not for him.

"You were right," she'd said. "I'm sorry. I love you. Pray for me." 

She'd tried to reach up to touch his face, but by the time Henry caught her hand and pressed it to his lips, he knew she would never feel it.

The baby had started to scream then, as if it knew. Maybe it did. 

"Take it away," Henry had said, and the nurse had carefully extracted the baby from its mother's arms and slipped out of the room as quietly as Mary had gone. It was only when the room was empty that he'd laid his head on Mary's breast and wept, great embarrassing sobs completely unsuited to a man. He hasn't been able to weep since then. 

He looks at Richard for a moment. The king's eyes are red-rimmed. It makes Henry hate him, just a little.

"It happened so fast," he says. "She was gone before I got there."

"Anne had felt a little tired that morning," Richard says. He isn't looking at Henry at all, really, it's more that he's looking _through_ him. "That was all. She'd been cross with one of her ladies, for bringing in the honeysuckle, except there hadn't been any." He tries to smile, a terrible twist of his lips that only serves to draw tears from his eyes. "She was so sorry about that -- she sent someone to beg forgiveness, can you believe it?"

Henry's vague sense of resentment evaporates at that; he suddenly feels moved enough to offer his hand. "She always was a kind soul," he says.

Richard takes his hand, grips it violently. "She went so quietly, in the end," he says. "She'd gone delirious -- it was almost like she'd forgotten she was sick, except she could only speak in her native language. They had to send for a Bohemian chaplain to shrive her." He swallows hard, gripping Henry's hand so hard that it aches. "She would sing to herself -- I don't think I shall ever be able to forget it. I still hear it, always." He screws his eyes shut -- Henry wonders if he's trying to block out the voice in his head, or trying to hear it better. "And then she called out to me. I was right there -- they wouldn't let me get too close to her, and -- God, I can't bear it, that she might have thought I wasn't there for her." He buries his face in his hands for a long moment, and when he looks up, his eyes have that empty look again. 

"She loved you," Henry says, helplessly.

"She did see me, at the end," Richard says. "She smiled at me, when she knew I was there." His voice catches as he adds, "She died smiling." 

Henry tries to smile reassuringly. "That signifies a good death," he says. "A holy death."

Richard withdraws his hand. His fingernails have left pale crescent marks in Henry's skin. Henry does his best not to wince.

"Of course it does," he says. Something flares up in his eyes again. "How else could she die?" Henry leaps awkwardly to his feet, holding his breath for a moment, as Richard rises, but Richard turns and goes to the window -- it faces westward, so perhaps he's looking toward Sheen. He looks as though he's trying to level the place by thought alone.

"Nobody else died," Richard says, after a long moment. "From the pestilence. It takes whole households and sometimes whole towns -- but it spared everyone. Everyone but her. It's how I know God has turned on me."

"We can't presume to know -- " Henry begins, but Richard cuts him off.

"We should _all_ have died," Richard says. "It would have been the most merciful thing. They wouldn't let me go to her. I wanted to, you know, but they held me back."

"England needs its king," Henry says, an almost mechanical response, for what can Richard do for England now? "We'll see them again in heaven," he adds.

"That's what I'm afraid of," Richard says. "Without her -- how can I possibly be saved?"

***

Henry had stayed in London in the hopes of gaining leave to accompany Richard to Ireland. As he leaves, he prays he won't be summoned. He can't be that close to Richard's grief. His own is enough weight to bear, and Richard is all-consuming even at the best of times.

When he returns to Leicester, he sends for the nurse -- he can't even remember her name; Mary would have known -- to bring Philippa to him.

It's been a long time since he's seen one of his children this young. He'd barely been able to look at Philippa after she was born. Humphrey and Blanche had been born while he was away. Harry had been a surprisingly composed newborn; John had resembled a deformed elf, but the poor boy _was_ the only one of his children unfortunate enough to look more like him than like Mary. Which is a kind of comfort, even though he'd told Richard the truth when he'd said that having children doesn't _really_ help.

What _does_ help is that he doesn't hate _this_ child.

Philippa is very much her mother's daughter, the same dark hair and the same wide grey eyes that make her look like she's perpetually startled. Henry had thought for years after they'd first gotten married that Mary was terrified of him, but she continued to look like that well after he knew she wasn't. 

Perhaps Philippa isn't scared of him either. 

He smiles down at her and kisses her forehead and thinks he can smell the chrism, even though it's been more than a month since she was baptized. "Hello," he says. "I'm your father."

**Author's Note:**

>  **that first time:** Henry and Mary's first son, Edward of Monmouth, was born in 1382, when Mary was only about thirteen. He died shortly after birth; Mary then went to live with her mother for a few years. Their next child, the future Henry V, was born in 1387. 
> 
> **Maybe I should go to Jerusalem again:** Henry went on a pilgrimage to Jerusalem in 1393 after his plans to go crusading in Lithuania with the Teutonic Knights fell through (they weren't doing a crusade that year). He had gone on crusade with them the last time they did it; while he was gone, his fourth son, Humphrey, was born (3 October 1390). Blanche's actual date of birth is unknown other than that it was in 1392, meaning she was conceived sometime after 30 April 1391 when Henry returned from his crusade. Mary's line about his absence is dramatic license on my part.
> 
>  **King Wenceslaus:** One of the many continental VIPs Henry visited during his travels was Wenceslaus IV, King of Bohemia and Emperor-elect. Wenceslaus was never formally crowned and was overthrown in 1400 (though he remained King of Bohemia). He and Anne were actually half-siblings; his mother was Anna of Świdnica and hers was Elisabeth of Pomerania. The indications in the story that he's a heavy drinker are based in fact. 
> 
> **John Holland** , Richard's half-brother, married Elizabeth of Lancaster in 1385, in what was basically a medieval shotgun wedding. 
> 
> **Geoffrey Chaucer's poem** about Blanche of Lancaster is _[The Book of the Duchess](http://omacl.org/Duchess/)_. Despite being an elegy, it's a fun read. Blanche died in 1368, when Henry was about a year old. 
> 
> **John Gower** revised the _Confessio Amantis_ in 1392 or 93, and one of the changes he made was to replace the dedication to King Richard (who may have actually commissioned the poem, if the [original dedication](http://d.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/text/peck-gower-confessio-amantis-volume-1-prologue#R1) can be believed) with one to "myn oghne lord, / Which of Lancastre is Henri named." It has been suggested that the reference to "Lancastre" indicates that this rededication actually took place after Henry's accession, or at least after the death of John of Gaunt in 1399, but for purposes of the story I have taken Gower at his word. 
> 
> The **_Sanctus_** referred to is meant to be the one attributed to "Roy Henry" in the Old Hall MS (compiled c. 1420). The identity of "Roy Henry" is uncertain, as Richard Taruskin points out: "Opinions still differ as to which of [Henry IV or V] may have composed the two pieces attributed to Roy Henry...but as the two pieces differ radically in style it is not impossible that each of the two kings may have written one." Since "the Old Hall Sanctus setting is the older of the two, to judge by its style and notation" ( _Music from the Earliest Notations to the Sixteenth Century: The Oxford History of Western Music,_ Oxford UP, 2005, p. 415), I have decided to assign it to Henry IV.
> 
> A **citole** and a **mandora** are medieval ancestors of the guitar and the mandolin respectively, although I've used _mandora_ instead of _gittern_ (the more proper English term for the period) for the sake of clarity. Both Mary and Henry are known to have played stringed instruments.
> 
>  **There has been talk...dismal failure:** Nigel Saul's biography (Yale UP, 1997, pp. 275-79) discusses these plans, which had been around since roughly 1385. As the story suggests, Richard's promotion of Robert de Vere to Duke of Ireland had more to do with elevating the status of his favorite than anything to do with affairs in Ireland. 
> 
> **Art MacMurrough** (1357-1416) was an influential Irish chieftain whose submission was a major objective for Richard's Irish campaign. He swore fealty to the English crown in 1395, but renounced it once Richard had left. 
> 
> **he refuses to enter any rooms:** This actually happened (although churches were exempted). Richard's destruction of Sheen palace, where Anne had died, is well-known.
> 
>  **Purple mourning** was typical for medieval kings.
> 
>  **Anne and I lost a child once:** Dramatic license on my part; there is no evidence of this happening, although it's certainly a possibility. An early pregnancy loss would probably not be a matter of record; pregnancy was officially considered to begin when the fetus had quickened (i.e. when its movement was perceptible). 
> 
> **She'd been cross:** This actually happened; there's a letter that describes it. It was so unbelievably sad that of course I had to include it.
> 
>  **Nobody else died:** This also seems to be true. While it is often speculated that Anne died of pneumonic plague, it is the most easily transmissible of the known forms of plague. Bubonic and septicemic plague are harder to transmit from human to human, and septicemic plague in particular kills you very quickly.


End file.
